


catsitting

by marchh



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Cats, Gen, Magical Realism, mary lives post tfp au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-08 01:41:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21227696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchh/pseuds/marchh
Summary: Mary brings home a funny looking squishy faced cat and Rosie insists its name is Mycroft.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sammaleinen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sammaleinen/gifts).

There is a new member at the clinic.

Mary leans down to look him in the eye, and get a better pictures of the situation.

“My,” she says with some marvel in her voice. “Is this not the stupidest little face I’ve ever seen!”

_ Mrow! _

.

John comes home that evening (a case, not work, forgot the milk), and stops short on his way in to greet Mary.

There on the sofa is his daughter, face scrunched in concentration as she tries to pin a bow onto a charcoal colored mass of fur.

“Is that-” he clears his throat. “Is that a cat?”

Mary pops her head into the living room.

“Observant, aren’t you! I can see why you’re a detective’s assistant.”

“Not an assistant. When’d we get a cat?” 

“About three hours ago,” Mary says, popping back out the room to cover her sheepish expression. The poor forlorn thing had howled so pitifully! Apparently he had been _ abandoned. _

John takes a step after her, having more questions. Rosie peeps up to supply the answers.

“He’s Mycroft,” she says.

Horrible. John stares. 

Mary swings back into the doorway, arms crossed and ready to sigh.

John gives her an incredulous look. She shakes her head.

“I’ve tried talking her out of it. She insists.”

“We’re not naming the cat after The Bureaucracy.”

“Must be something about that dumb squishy face that reminds her of her favorite uncle.”

“Have we disowned Lestrade?”

Rosie rubs each of her tiny hands in circles over the cat’s respective chubby cheeks. 

“Do you want some biscuits, Mycroft?”

“Honey, cats can’t have biscuits,” Mary calls over patiently.

“Mycroft eats biscuits all the time.”

Mary raises an eyebrow at John.

“Or maybe it’s all of Sherlock’s fat jokes.”

.

Sherlock stops by that weekend, looks the cat over with an inquisitive eye, and listens to Rosie’s prattling introduction of the feline creature.

Then he laughs.

“You’re right,” Sherlock says, to John’s momentary surprise. “He is fat and slow, just like my brother.”

He tosses the cat a ball, which the cat watches pass by with an air of disdain, refusing to chase after it. 

“Mycroft is an incredibly fitting name,” Sherlock concludes.

“Yes well, that’s because _ you _ don’t have to live with him,” John grumbles.

“I grew up with him,” Sherlock sniffs indignantly. "I've done my time."

Then he turns to greet Mary with a winning smile, which quickly turns then to confusion.

“Another case?”

“Yes. Whatever possessed you to get a cat?” he asks abruptly, curiosity getting the better of him. Then he looks just a bit apologetic. "Case requires a bumbling decoy; I've no doubt of your acting ability but you know John's a natural at that."

"Of course. Good to stretch his legs.”

“Yes.”

“He just looked so incredibly pitiful, I…” she trails off.

_ “Hey.” _ John repeats, looking out from behind Sherlock. 

“I meant the cat,” Mary says, much to John’s embarrassment. 

Sherlock gives the creature a last curious glance before they depart.

Mycroft the Cat paws at the soft ball as they head out the door.

.

Outside, John rubs his nose, feeling almost on the verge of a sneeze he knew would never come. He wasn’t allergic to any animals as far as he knew - it would be just his luck.

“How um, how is Mycroft anyway? Been awhile,” John says.

They hadn’t talked since...well, they’d rarely talked anyway, unless he was acting an intermediary for Sherlock. But things were - tense was an understatement - after the Incident on the island. 

After Sherlock’s _ sister _ awoke, and wreaked havoc on the three of them.

“Blessedly staying out of my business,” Sherlock says, dismissing any discussion of the incident.

Perhaps he was still shaken up as well - perfectly understandable. Not many people had the misfortune of finding, after three decades, that their sister who they’d thought had passed away as a child had in fact not, and grown up to become the Wicked Witch of the East.

.

John, still dressed in his robe, comes downstairs to the strange sight of a cat reading his morning newspaper.

“....anything interesting happen, Mycroft?” John asks jokingly. He moves to turn on the kettle, trying to ignore the way the cat’s roving eyes looked to really be reading the open paper, not just sitting on folded stack of papers to prevent John from reading them as cats were apt to do.

He sits down with the mug, and slowly tugs the front page of the broadsheet from under the furball. To his relief, ‘Mycroft’ lifts his paw to allow John to do so, moving onto the World pages.

They read in silence.

.

Rosie is staging a little tea party for herself, Stuffed the bear, and Mycroft the cat when Sherlock bursts into the house.

“Mary, I need you,” he states, holding the door open, dressed and poised for battle, with no other explanation. She grabs her coat, but waits for the explanation she is most certainly deserving.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sighs, petulance disguising his near-shaking countenance. 

“She’s escaped, again.”

Mary’s eyes darken.

“Eurus,” Sherlock confirms as John steps into the foyer, coat on and armed. 

“I’m coming with you,” John says. 

Sherlock nods impatiently. “Fine.”

“Rosie-” Mary starts.

“Has a perfectly capable babysitter.”

The three adults turn to the small child seated at her small plastic table with her plush toy and pet cat.

“Doesn’t she, brother mine?”

Mycroft the cat licks a paw, and brushes his whiskers snootily. 

“Oh my god,” John says. He _ knew _ that cat had been reading the paper!

Mary stares, first at the cat, then at Sherlock.

“Mycroft, the fool, went to see our sister alone - she turned him into a cat before making her escape.”

“It took you a _ week _ to realize your brother was missing?” Mary chides. 

“He often goes on confidential trips!” 

.

The three friends return to their doorstep, weary and in need of a good wash, two days later.

John struggles with the front door lock for several moments, before it finally opens from the inside.

Sherlock had half expected to see his brother on the other side. His shoulders slump almost imperceptibly.

Rosie peers up at them, eyes wide.

“You smell,” she says with the adorable bluntness afforded small children.

“Yes, honey, we do,” Mary says, picking her up as they lumber in. She eyes Sherlock. “Where’s your uncle?”

“In your bathroom,” Rosie says. Sherlock is on immediate alert, but John is a bit miffed, because they have a perfectly good guest bath, and he has no wish to share his robe.

“And how did your weekend go, honey?” Mary says, the smooth interrogator.

“I cooked!” Rosie crows triumphantly.

“Did you now?” Mary frowns.

“I pressed buttons on the microwave,” Rosie admits. Mycroft had helped. 

“And Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, impatient now. He’d stomped off to the bathroom only to find it locked. That was a good sign. Except it was still locked.

“He picked out bedtime stories and I read them to him.”

“Is he still a cat!” John blurts out, much to Mary’s exasperation. 

Rosie shakes her head. 

“He was a cat earlier, when he spit up a furball.Then he ran into the bathroom and yowled and scratched.”

Mary winces and Rosie continues.

“And then I heard the shower turn on.”

The master bath unlocks and footsteps sound, until John sees the traitorous no-longer-a-cat man wearing his robe. 

“A week, brother mine, you’re slipping,” he says with that slick enunciation of his, smooth as his wet combed hair.

Sherlock glowers. “You could have delivered your message clearer!”

“Your witch of a goddaughter recognized it right away,” he sniffs. “And you call yourself a magic detective.”

“You’re tall again!” Rosie cheers.

“Yes, dear, thank you.”

“And fatter than ever,” Sherlock grumbles. “You’ve put on weight as a furry creature.”

Mycroft opens his mouth and Mary sees early signs of a brotherly spat developing, so shoves past the both of them out of the hallway and into the master bedroom.

“And it is late! The two of you may take the guest room, take the couch, whatever. But quietly! Else, get out. Rosie has school in the morning.”

“Story!” Rosie cheers.

“Bed,” Mary counters emphatically. After a moment Rosie assents. 

John watches the two bickering brothers battle practically telepathically as they head down the stairs. Then Mycroft’s earlier words register - he turns to Mary in alarm.

“Rosie’s a witch?”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

In retrospect, perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut.

In retrospect, he should have done a lot of things, from not letting Eurus goad him into feeling just a bit guilty, just enough to linger and send the guard ahead, to taking that step. Just one step - one tiny step was enough to set her plan into motion.

Mycroft can remember the moment with clarity, in retrospect. He certainly wasn’t clear-headed then, not when he took one step back and let the door swing shut. Oh, in a moment he knew he had been had, but it was too late.

The door swung shut and he knew then that she had found a crack in the defenses yet again, and her magic was seeping out from her containment cell, about to wreak havoc.

Mycroft turns to his sister, and raises one eyebrow as if he wasn’t worried for his very life, as if he wasn’t reliving the trauma she’d put him through last time.

“Well,” he says, almost flippantly. “What is it you plan to do this time, turn me into a cat and run free?”

She lets out a peal of laughter, and then he sees green as her magic swirls into visibilitty and fills the room.

“A cat! I do think I’ll take your suggestion into consideration, brother mine,” she says, and it’s the last thing he hears with human ears, before blinking into consciousness in a body that is not his.

A cat! 

What humiliation.

He is glad, however, that he did not say something like “goldfish” instead, which would have rendered him flopping on the ground or imprisoned inside a glass bowl where he would surely die as such a creature.

He looks down at his paws, the little furry gray things, and flexes them. Claws! Possibly useful, though for what he still has no idea. He can already tell they will be too short to pick locks with, no matter what the cartoons say.

Still, the form he inhabits is wily and lithe enough that he manages to sneak aboard a leaving ship, and then he starts to plan his return to London.

.

Mycroft’s original plan is to make his way to Baker Street, and then point to letters or otherwise spill clues around Sherlock’s flat until he got the message and set to turning him back.

But en route to 221B, Mycroft passes a familiar building. A woman in scrubs and a tight bun yawns as she unlocks the front door, and Mycroft immediately recognizes her as a sympathetic person to small, furry animals such as himself. 

This is the clinic in which Mrs. Mary Watson worked, and perhaps this would much better suit Mycroft’s needs….

_ Mrow! _

He makes sure to look extra wide-eyed and inquisitive, and the woman laughs before digging through her purse for a treat. Such a charitible stranger! But Mycroft does not want her lint-covered granola bars,; he squeezes his way past her into the clinic, and perches atop the reception counter.

“Oh, you want to come to work, do you?” she asks, in a cooing baby-talk voice. Mycroft puffs up proudly, and lets her dote on him with silly small talk as she bustles to get the office ready for the day. 

Yes, this would suit. Mrs. Watson would surely be able to lead him to Dr. John Watson, and then to Sherlock all the same. And meanwhile he could curl up in this nice heated room, and take a nap.

.

“My! If that isn’t the stupidest little face I’ve ever seen!”

Mycroft meows at the Mrs. Watson, and bats at her stethoscope ineffectively in a way he is sure comes off as adorable. He is also sure that by the end of her shift, he will have a ride in that big purse of hers. 

(And his face is quite typical for the breed, thank you very much.)

Mycroft has decided that he will not face his sister directly in a bid to remedy the situation. In fact, his restful morning of napping has given him perspective and time to contemplate his next moves. 

It has only been just over a month since he last dealt with the brat, and although, yes, the protection of London against magical threat technically did fall squarely in his domain, Mycroft was a bit...knackered.

He yawns, showing his pointy little white teeth. Yes, better to have Dr. Watson contact his brother to remedy the situation, while he sat put. After all, what was a little cat to do against the big bad Evil Witch of the East? Surely, it would be safer for everyone if kitty were to stay put, during the battle. During which, he could catch up on all that sleep he was due…

.

Rosie gasps, dropping her backpack on the seat as she practically tumbles into the car to pet the gray cat on the head. Mycroft closes his eyes and purrs.

“Mycroft!” Rosie says with happy surprise. “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft gives her a serene look. His suspicions she had the gift were correct - he suspected Mary to have the gene, somewhere in her family, but there were no records and no one could be sure. The Holmes family, likewise, clearly had the gift, though save for Eurus there were no living members of the family who possessed the gift of magic. It had been a gargantuan task to curse Sherlock into thinking the Holmeses were a mundane family to begin with.

Mary looks at her daughter through the rearview mirror and makes a face.

“Oh, you’re not going to name him that, are you?”

“Why not?” Rosie blinks innocently at her mother.

“What an aw- it’ll be a confusing name for a cat, dear, if your uncle should come to visit.”

“No it won’t.”

“It’s not a very cat like name, is it?” Mary tries. Rosie just looks at her with wide, child-like eyes.

“Why not?”

“‘Mycroft’ - it’s rather...archaic isn’t it?”

“What’s archaic?”

“It means old, honey.”

“Mycroft’s old.”

Mycroft looks up at his little magicky niece indignantly.

.

“What about Fluffy?” Mary tries again as a last ditch effort, taking Rosie’s backpack after her as she toddles into the house carrying the big, lazy cat.

“That’s a silly name,” Rosie says.

Indeed! Mycroft would not tolerate being called a name like _ that. _

John comes home a few hours later and they debate his name all over again while he and Rosie more or less ignore the debate and watch a film on the telly from the sofa. She periodically pauses to inspect him, and tell him little things like,

“Mycroft, your paws are so squishy and pink! See!”

Yes, he does see. A bit ticklish too. Instinctively, he pulls his paw back - and then licks it, then using his licked paw to groom his face. What an odd quirk of cats, that. While he does appreciate their penchant for cleanliness, he cannot say he quite agrees with their methods.

“Mycroft, your tail has a stripe on it! See, this band is darker than the rest of your gray.”

Mycroft cranes his head to look and, yes, that was about right.

Halfway through the film John comes along, and stares at Mycroft for a moment, contemplating.

Yes? Mycroft wants to ask. Instead he folds his paws neatly, and then lies down.

“Um, he’s in my seat,” John says. Oh, bother, he looks as if he means to _ move _ him, and Mycroft had just gotten comfortable. He has no intention of moving.

John ends up taking a different seat.

.

To Mycroft’s great surprise, Sherlock doesn’t arrive until three days later.

“Uncle Sherlock!” Rosie says to greet him, tugging im by the hand over to the sofa where hecan beg an audience with Mycroft, who is busy lounging on the couch.

“See! It’s Mycroft. He arrived like this only on Monday, so I’m calling him Mycroft for now, since he’s only a cat and I am not a cat,” Rosie explains.

Sherlock laughs.

“You’re right, he is fat and slow, just like my brother,” Sherlock says. He picks up a soft ball lying beside the sofa and tosses it. Mycroft gives him an incredibly haughty look, refusing to chase after the small moving thing, no matter that his instincts urge him to do so. Lazy! At least he wasn’t _ slow, _ taking nearly five full days after his change to come visit his brother! In such a time of need! 

Not that Mycroft had been _ worried _ the last three days. If it had been another three days more, he might have been, maybe, but so far he had been quite - well - comfortable in fact. Being a cat involved a lot of napping. Almost enough to make up for all the lost sleep Eurus has caused him _ last _ time.

Sherlock leaves the small creatures to talk with John and Mary, and after a glance to ascertain no one was looking, Mycroft paws at the soft ball. Maybe Rosie could throw it, and he could chase after it. 

.

Mycroft sees John first the next morning, and he’s giving him an odd look. Well! Perhaps Rosie inherited her magic from a dormant gene in John’s lineage, rather than Mary.

Just as well, he needed the man to pass on a message to Sherlock. Mycroft had been reading the papers, and found reports of a death that has foul play written all over it. He waits until John comes closer, gingerly reaching for the paper, to lift his majestic paw and reveal the little write-up.

“...thanks,” John says, sliding the broadsheet out from under Mycroft. 

They have breakfast in silence.

.

Sherlock bursts in the house, calling for Mary, and Mycroft thinks, _ finally. _

His brother finally addresses him, to which Mycroft only licks his paw to groom his whiskers. Took him long enough. The Watsons demonstrate some surprise, but the urgency of the situation has them all hurrying out the door.

And then it’s just Mycroft and Rosie.

She glances at the cat, and then the telly.

“Just one more episode,” she bargains, knowing it’s a losing fight.

“Mow!” Mycroft counters, taking a seat on top of the remote. 

Rosie sighs and admits defeat. It’s off to bed then.

. 

Rosie brushes her teeth as Mycroft sits on the sink counter, supervising. His tail swishes - a bit odd, that, remembering he has a tail. It is quite satisfying a feeling, though.

Mycroft puts the child to bed, and then curls up at the foot of the bed himself, settling in for the night. Sure, he’d wake up a few hours later in the dead of the night and patrol the house, but he was fond of this bedtime ritual.

.

Mycroft bats at Rosie’s shoulder, bright and early, and she pats him on the head while she yawns. Routine was important for small children, he knew, and it wouldn’t do to let her sleep the day away.

He surveys the kitchen as Rosie gets ready, then comes back upstairs to usher the sleepy tow-headed child down for breakfast.

Rosie opens the fridge, and they peer inside. 

“Mrow!”

Mycroft bats at the carton of milk, and Rosie takes it out to pour into a bowl. Bless the child. Not what he meant.

“Dyou think we should make eggs, Mycroft?”

Certainly not! The kitchen had a gas stove, and clever as Rosie is, the risk of some sort of accident was too high! 

He bats at a cupboard door instead, until she gets the picture and helps him open it. She reaches inside to pull out a box of oatmeal packets,, and wrinkles her nose. Rosie shoves the packet back in, and rummages around until she finds one of the flavored ones, with sugar and bit of dried fruit mixed in. Mycroft sighs. Very well.

He nudges her back toward the milk, and they manage to create a microwaved concoction of oats, which she eats as he laps at a plate of milk. A surreal experience. But he couldn’t subject her to the can opener. Ah, yes, there were chicken nuggets in the freezer, which she could microwave for them both.

.

After a day and a half of playing imaginary games, and trying to teach his niece magic, Mycroft feels it.

At first he thinks one of the spells Rosie is stumbling with has actually worked, but no, this was much more experienced magic than what he was letting her play at. Eurus must have been put back in her magic dampener cell, or at least the cuffs en route to her cell, and her spell on Mycroft was being nullified. 

He screeches, and then jumps up. 

Oh, it felt like his insides were turning! And not just in the hairball way.

He darts into the Watsons’ bigger bathroom, and nearly climbs the walls as his head spins. He vaguely remembers some yowling, and then smoke and light, and suddenly he is Mycroft Holmes and over six-foot tall again. He stares at the mirror, and his state of dishevelment. Then he turns on the shower. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mycroft: *cursed and turned into a cat*  
Mycroft: is this a Vacation


End file.
